She left her comfortable home in British Columbia, Canada, without knowing where she was going or what kind of a life she might lead. On the long road trip, she drove in the car with him, blindly faithful, dependent on his love and affection---and wily ways---to get them where he wanted to go. Through the uncertainty of the United States, the dangers of Mexico’s drug lord territorial wars, the fickleness of their vehicle, they soldiered forth, like flying on a wing and a prayer in a lightplane. Sometimes, at night, when they stopped for bed and rest, motels refused them occupancy. Because of her.

Finally, they stopped in Belize City, Central America. To begin a new life in ungodly heat and humidity, matched only by new strains of insect bites, erupting, itchy, on virgin skin. Yet she hung in there. Trusting her mentor. She even got used to ungodly weather, like hurricanes. Probably uncomfortable, she never complained: loyal, loving, and lost in adoration for him. Even today.

Her name is Annie. A beautiful border collie. And we visited her folks while they lived in Belize where we soon learned: Annie ruled supreme in the household.So maybe she didn’t have her own TV (did you know dog television for $5US a month is now a valid channel?) but Annie was royalty, above the common folk like us. Her owner even homecooked, then froze for future use, special doggie food* for her.One hot, humid day, we waited expectantly for a chef-inspired meal in Annie’s owners’ air-conditioned apartment.

We had just returned from a hot, humid sightseeing adventure to Altun Ha, nearby Maya archeological ruins. We were sweaty, tired, and mucho hungry. As we sat around our hosts’ bountiful table, extolling the virtues of tropical fruits, my salivary glands anticipated the fresh beef stew dish prepared by our chef/host. Animated conversation, long cool drinks, the click clack of eating utensils---even Annie sitting longingly beside our chef/host at the head of the table--- presented the perfect Norman Rockwell painting of generous hospitality and culinary delight. With gusto, we dug into our beef stew, rich with gravy, simmered to perfection with healthy chunks of carrots, eggplant, and squash. Delicious! I happened to notice during this fabulous repast, however, that our usually animated host was not so. In fact, looking round the table, I heard conversation from everyone except our chef. “You’re awfully quiet,” I said. “Feeling okay?”

“Um,” he replied, his hand on the nose of his favourite Annie. “….feelin’ fine.”Suddenly I noticed he hadn’t eaten a morsel of food. “You sure? You haven’t eaten a thing.” He shifted slightly in his chair. “Um…” His voice trailed off. “What..?” “This stew,” he commented slowly. “I made a mistake. This is Annie’s food.” Stunned silence. Slowly, deliberately, each diner put down knife and fork. I looked at Annie. She cocked her head. “Sorry ‘bout this,” our host said. “Say something...anything…like you’re mad at me…!” Thinking carefully now. What could/should I say? Unexpectedly---as if from a galaxy, far, far away, as if I no longer controlled what I said---I heard my words tumble forth automatically: “Bark. Bark.” Like I said, it’s a dog’s life.